


Sing It Softly, the Mountains Will Hear

by pinstripedJackalope



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Bombs, Canon Compliant, Child Death, Established Relationship, Explosions, Explosives, Historical, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, M/M, Minor Character Death, Shock, Vomiting, War, it's a kid i'm sorry, not too long ago tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29813247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope
Summary: The team is on a mission when a bomb goes off, and a child dies in front of Nicky.  Joe takes care of Nicky in the aftermath.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 4
Kudos: 147





	Sing It Softly, the Mountains Will Hear

**Author's Note:**

> So the death isn't too graphic but if you're sensitive to child death you may not want to read this. 
> 
> Also I feel like I'm always writing Joe comforting Nicky. Alas, I'm a sucker for that shit. I had this idea ages ago and I've been muddling through this fic for so long now lmfao. YEET, as they say.

_Eastern Laos, 1976._

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

Joe whistles, spinning a melody to accompany the beat of the metal detector in his hands. It’s a simple tune, not anywhere near good enough to be a top forty hit, but he doesn’t mind—the sound of music is welcome in any form, mostly because it distracts from the buzz of insects all around. It’s a warm, humid day in the middle of the wet season, and the bugs are having a field day. That plus the jagged, picturesque mountains that dominate the land here create a very unique sort of experience—a simple one, a joyful one, one that Joe revels in. 

That isn’t to say that the work they’re doing isn’t important. They’re helping to clear the rice paddies and farmland of some of the unexploded ordinance that was dropped by the USA during the war so that the local farmers don’t have to be afraid to work their own fields, which is just as necessary—and as dangerous—a task as any of their other missions. It’s just… it’s different from most of the work they do. Different from fighting, from bloodshed. 

It was a bit of an adjustment, honestly. When you’ve spent a thousand years dancing not to music but to the sound of clashing swords, it’s hard not to think of yourself as a warrior. A weapon, even. This work, the hands-on nature of trekking through the mud armed with nothing but a metal detector… it reminds Joe that there is more to life than the call of the blade. If there’s one thing that Joe has learned to savor, it’s the missions where ‘helping’ is not synonymous with ‘killing’. 

“…I hate this shit.”

Joe glances over at Booker, who has paused a few meters away to slap at his own face. He frowns at his palm before wiping the splattered bugs off on his muddy pants. 

Joe laughs at the expression on his face. “Yeah? I’m pretty sure the bugs think the same thing about you,” he says.

Booker huffs, and mutters something under his breath. He’s been in a sour mood all afternoon, something about the heat and the sunlight disagreeing with him. Joe has tried several times to lighten the cloud hanging above him, but has had no luck thus far. 

It is what it is. Andy, a figure in all black on the far side of the field, is in about the same state—she’s in one of her mood swings this year, taking her fury out on the world. She’s been ranting angrily about idiotic wars since they started, talking about how pointless it’ll be to clean up some foreign country’s mess today when they’ll just make another one tomorrow.

“So what?” Nicky had replied, when he heard her say this. “We make it safe for the children for one day. Don’t you think that’s worth it?”

Andy had had nothing to say to that, just picked up her gear and strode away. Not the best response they could hope for, but not the worst, all things considered.

Joe shakes his head at the memory, returning to his work and the steady beep of the metal detector. Andy and Booker… they’ll get over it. They’ll bitch and moan about the bugs and the heat and the pointless nature of it all, and then, tomorrow, they’ll get up and do it all over again. It’s what they do. It’s who they _are_. And while they’re doing that, Joe and Nicky will be here, enjoying the work for all four four of them. Nicky will make some mango sticky rice with the locals, and Andy will get all soft despite herself when he offers her a bit, and—

Joe jerks, pulled out of his thoughts by a sudden yell, sharp as it echoes across the field. He glances up, looking first to Booker and then to Andy before turning toward the village. That sounded like Nicky’s voice. Nicky’s voice, followed a moment later by—

Joe knows the instant the bomb goes off that it was a bad one. Not because of the size of the blast or the sound that it makes, though both are fairly impressive. No… it’s because it happens just on the other side of the closest farmhouse, the one at the far end of the field. In other words… the exact place Joe last saw Nicky, corralling the local kids away from the area they’ve been working. They’d wanted to watch, fascinated by the foreigners who have been digging around in the paddies, but Nicky had been vehement—they needed to stay back, stick to the fields they’d already cleared.

Clearly, someone did not heed his instructions.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Joe says, dropping the metal detector and taking off back across the section he’s been working on, music forgotten. Booker is following close at his heels, squelching through the mud as the sound of children wailing begins to rise in the distance. Joe doesn’t have to look to know that Andy is doing the same on the other side of the field, sprinting toward the smoke beginning to drift above the houses. 

They hit the road moments later, all three of them together. The explosion was on the edge of one of the gardens they hadn’t yet gotten to, bits of vegetables strewn across the road and smoke thick on the street. There’s a group of kids clutching at each other on the far side, barely visible—Booker veers toward them, herding them back and away from the thick smoke still rising from the detonation. Joe and Andy, meanwhile, head toward the detonation site, following the destruction, the two of them searching until— _there_.

Joe cries out, rushing toward Nicky. He was thrown onto his back, facing the explosion as if he were running toward it when the bomb went off. He’s sprawled on the dirt with one arm twisted above his head, a series of holes punched through his torso from the shrapnel. He’s not dead—as Joe watches he rolls onto his side, struggling up on one elbow.

Joe is down on his knees beside him in an instant, shielding him from prying eyes as he gasps and chokes, the metal slowly ejecting itself from his body while he shudders violently. Blood is trickling from his visible ear, eardrums clearly blown, and his face is shadowed with burns that are already healing. 

Joe reaches down, holding him steady. It’ll be no use talking to him for a few minutes—eardrums are fiddly little things that like to take their time healing—but he can be here at least. He can touch him, ground him, let him heal—and then they’ll have to find a way to sneak the two of them away before anyone realizes exactly what’s happened.

It takes a moment before the last piece of shrapnel hits the dirt road. Nicky spends a second gasping, his eyes closed, before he begins to struggle upright once more.

“Hey, hey, let me help,” Joe says, on the off-chance that Nicky can hear him. 

Nicky doesn’t pay him any mind, forcing his hands under him. “The kids—” he says, speaking in Italian.

Joe glances up at Booker. “Are the kids okay?” he calls.

“Five kids, couple of scratches, no major injuries,” Booker calls back. 

Joe is about to turn to Nicky to relay this information when Andy cuts him off. “There were six,” she says, and her voice is grim. 

Aw, _shit_. Joe tries to intercept Nicky, putting his own body between him and where Andy is kneeling, but Nicky is already staring, his eyes too wide as he lurches forward on unsteady feet. “Nicky, _wait_ —” Joe says, and makes a grab for him as Booker curses off to one side. 

He manages to loop an arm around Nicky’s waist before he gets too far. Unfortunately, the damage has already been done. He’s seen. There’s no going back now.

 _So much for a joyful mission_ , Joe thinks, the thought fleeting.

As if in response, Nicky jerks, his entire body going rigid. “No—” his says, and his voice is rough, pitched too high, frantic. “She was just—she was just—”

“I know. I know,” Joe says. He holds Nicky tighter as he stumbles, and, when Nicky’s knees suddenly go out from under him, manages to haul him around until he’s facing the other direction. Somewhere up the road there’s a scream—a mother, Joe would guess. A moment later he hears running footsteps, pounding down the dirt road toward them. 

Joe focuses on Nicky, walking him steadily in the other direction. Andy, Booker… they’ll deal with that. Joe has one objective and one objective only—to get Nicky back to their jeep before anyone realizes that there are holes in his shirt and no holes in his flesh.

Unfortunately for all of them, he doesn’t go easily. He’s unsteady, barely on his feet, shell shocked and reeling. His words have petered off into nothing, his mouth moving and no sound coming out, and his eyes are wide, distant, unseeing. He’s healed completely now, every bit of marred flesh now unmarked, but he’s incredibly pale, sweat cold on his skin. Joe can feel his hands shaking, tremors working their way up his arms as his breath comes in fast, shallow gulps. 

“Deep breaths,” Joe says in his most soothing voice. He wraps his arms more firmly around Nicky’s chest, guiding him around a corner and off the main road. “In and out, _tesoro_ , come on.”

It doesn’t help. Nicky is gasping too fast, chest heaving, heading straight for hyperventilation. Nicky stumbles again, bending at the waist until Joe is the only thing holding him up, all of his weight in Joe’s arms. Joe feels more than sees the moment his stomach rolls, his body having decided that it’s had enough.

Joe grunts, lowering him carefully back down to the ground before he can take them both down. “Okay, okay, it’s okay…” he says, kneeling next to Nicky as he retches, braced on all fours. “Had to come out, huh? That’s okay, _habibi_ , just get it up.”

The only response Joe gets is Nicky’s back arching as he vomits in the mud.

It takes a while before it ends. Joe spends the entire time rubbing his back and looking anxiously over his shoulder to make sure none of the locals have discovered them, and the moment Nicky is done he apologizes and pulls Nicky’s arm up over his shoulders, lifting him to his feet. Nicky doesn’t fight it as Joe begins to walk again, but he’s still unsteady, his feet dragging as he stumbles along. His head is loose, lolling like he’s drunk, his free arm hanging limp at his side—but at least they’re moving. Slowly but surely, they’re getting somewhere.

Booker is at the jeep when they finally reach it, standing beside the open driver’s door and fiddling with his flask. He stows it away at the sound of their footsteps, his face pinched with unease. “Took you long enough. Is he okay?” he asks.

“He’s in shock,” Joe says shortly. “Andy?”

“She’ll meet us at the house,” Booker says, and swings open the back door. “Here, hand him over.”

Joe grunts, letting Booker take Nicky’s weight for a moment. He then gets into the jeep, sliding across the backseat to make room for Nicky. It’s a bit of a production getting Nicky inside, but with Joe pulling and Booker lifting they manage. Once he’s in, Joe lays him down on his side, resting his head in Joe’s lap as Booker folds his legs until his muddy boots are on the seat.

“You good?” Booker asks, hunched down to peer in the window. Joe nods, stroking Nicky’s bangs back from his clammy face. 

Nicky doesn’t so much as twitch. He’s listless, staring at nothing, painfully blank. Joe swallows, holding him in place as Booker slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. 

The drive is fairly short, full of thick, wet heat and the distant buzz of insects. Joe spends almost all of it just talking, speaking in a low, soothing voice. He’s trying to get through to Nicky, to shake him out of it, but Nicky is long gone—he’s retreated far, far back into his mind, away from the trauma and the death and the pain. 

Joe doesn’t blame him, in all honesty. Children are always the hardest, and Nicky especially has never responded well when it’s a kid. He gets caught up in helping, in saving them, and when he can’t… god. It’s like the world is ending. It’s all he can see.

At least Joe is here for him this time. Joe will take care of him. As soon as they get to the safe house, Joe will be there to clean him and put him to bed and hold him. Soon. Soon.

“Almost there,” Booker says softly, as if reading his mind, and Joe nods, hand splayed across Nicky’s chest, holding him steady. 

They pull up in front a moment later. It isn’t much, just a shack with a bathroom, but it has running water and that’s all that Joe really cares about right now. He waits until Booker is at his side of the car before he opens the door and begins to haul Nicky out, slow and careful, talking in to him all the while. Nicky’s head lolls against his shoulder as he hauls him up, arms wrapped around his chest from behind, Booker holding his legs.

It takes some maneuvering, but they eventually manage to get inside. They’ve long since come to the silent agreement that whoever had the worst death/injury during a mission gets the shower first, and Booker only nods when Joe looks at him questioningly. Together they carry Nicky into the bathroom, sitting him down on the floor next to the shower stall.

“Just yell if you need anything,” Booker says, serious. Joe gives an affirmative. A moment later he and Nicky are alone, Booker pulling the door most of the way closed behind him.

“Okay. Let’s get you clean,” Joe says, stroking Nicky’s hair. He didn’t notice in the car, but it’s faintly sticky, a little too red. Blood, Joe surmises. His clothes, too, have a very fine layer of blood on them, now mostly dried. Joe winces, and gets to work pulling them off, working as gently as he can as he tries not to think about red mist.

Nicky is visibly trembling by the time Joe has him stripped down. His eyes are still distant, his face pale despite the heat. They don’t have a water heater here, and Joe thinks about asking Booker to warm up some water before deciding that it’ll take too long. Nicky needs to be clean, needs to be held, needs to be _comforted_ , as soon as humanly possible. 

“I’m sorry, _habibi_ ,” Joe says, before hauling Nicky into the shower and turning on the water. He angles it as far down as he can so it doesn’t hit Nicky right in the face, but there’s nothing he can do about it striking him in the chest with all the finesse of a battering ram.

The good news is that the sharp chill of the water seems to jolt Nicky partway out of his fugue. The bad news, well…

Joe grabs him as he shudders, the spasms working their way through him, eyes blinking wide and finally focusing. “Wh—Yusuf? Where are we?” he asks, his voice slurred as he reaches for a weapon he won’t be able to find.

Joe shushes him, stroking his hair back from his face as the water begins to wash away the blood and sweat and mud. “We’re at the safe house,” he says, curling one hand around the back of Nicky’s neck so that he can bring their foreheads together. His other hand is off to the side, searching for the washcloth they used this morning.

“Safe house?” Nicky asks. He flails an arm out, his weak, wet fingers latching onto the front of Joe’s shirt. “I don’t… how did we…?”

“Booker drove us. You were a bit out of it,” Joe says, and yes, thank god, there’s the washcloth. He pushes it under the spray, only leaning away from Nicky to lather some soap on it so he can start washing him properly.

It’s here that Nicky asks the loaded question. With eyes too wide and hands holding on as if he already knows the answer, he opens his mouth and asks, “Joe… what happened?”

And Joe… god, he _hesitates_. 

It’s the wrong move, he knows that immediately. He never hesitates, not with his words and not with the truth—not unless he knows for a fact that the truth will wreak more havoc than a bold-faced lie. But he does know—he _knows_ what the truth will do to Nicky right now, and he had hoped that they could at least get him clean before it came out. 

Unfortunately, Nicky knows him well enough to understand the words he doesn’t say. It is with this realization that it all comes crashing down.

“No,” he says, and his face screws up as he remembers. “No, we—we were—and the kids—I tried to stop her, I tried to—but she just wanted to help—she just wanted to _help_ —”

It’s here that a sob overtakes him, like an avalanche coming down a mountain, the snow careening down and burying everything else in its path. He sobs, and sobs, and sobs again, each one louder and more desperate than the last until they are all but strangling him, swooping gasps wrenching through his chest as his back hunches, his forehead coming to rest on Joe’s stomach. His fingers twist so tightly in the material of Joe’s shirt that his knuckles go white, his entire body shaking.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Joe says, choking on the word. He tosses the washcloth aside with a _splat_ , wrapping both arms around Nicky and _holding_ him. He can’t help it when he begins babbling—soothing words, affirmations, platitudes, anything that comes to mind. _You did everything you could_ , and _she_ _’s in a better place_ , and _I_ _’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_.

The words have no effect, and soon enough Joe resorts to rocking them back and forth, back and forth, as Nicky shakes apart. It doesn’t matter that they’ve been here before, that they’ve survived the deaths of a hundred children in a hundred wars. It doesn’t matter that they will eventually be here again, that they will survive that, too. Right here, in this moment, Joe feels like the world may as well have stopped spinning. He’s helpless in a way that hurts down in his bones. Nicky is Joe’s rock, his anchor—the sound of him crying like he can’t do anything else, curled up naked at the bottom of a cold shower, rattles Joe down to his very _soul_. 

It does not last. Like all things it must come to an end, and it does, eventually. It takes a while—too long—but Nicky’s sobs taper off and he quiets in Joe’s arms, his body stilling. 

It’s not like before, like the shell shock; just exhaustion, emotional and physical. Still, Joe doesn’t let go, allowing the cold water to beat against his shoulder. For a long moment, there is nothing but the sound of the shower, a few hiccups, and, still, distant, the buzz of too many bugs.

…As an aside, Joe thinks he might finally understand Booker’s ire with this mission.

He shakes his head, shaking the thought away. Then he hums, slowly sitting back once more. Nicky lets him go, shifting where he sits. His face is blotchy and red, eyes bloodshot but already healing—Joe cups his cheek in one hand, leaning in to press a kiss to the bridge of his nose. Nicky closes his eyes, shuddering in the cold.

“Let me wash you,” Joe says, holding Nicky steady. “I’ll get you clean and then we can go to sleep, hm?”

Nicky nods. It’s such a small thing, but Joe is thankful for it all the same—thankful that Nicky is back with him, that the frightening distance is gone, as selfish as it is. He presses another kiss to Nicky’s face for good measure, and then sets about lathering up the soap once more.

They get out of the shower about fifteen minutes after that, when Nicky has been scrubbed pink. Joe goes to get dry clothes for the both of them while Nicky brushes his teeth, and then, once they’re both dried and dressed, Joe gets them settled into bed. He doesn’t wait a moment longer before turning Nicky to face the wall and spooning up against his back, arms wrapped around his waist and nose pressed to the damp hair at the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“I know,” Nicky says, and he does. He knows that Joe wishes it were different, just as Joe knows that Nicky will be quiet in the morning, and that he’ll pick at his food, and that it will take a while for him to smile again. He knows that Nicky will try, will try _so hard_ to talk and eat and smile, to make Joe stop worrying—but it won’t work, because they will both know that this one hurt deep, deep down. 

Time will help. Joe holds Nicky’s back to his chest and tries to hold the thought in his mind. Time will make all the difference—it always does. It’ll take a while to heal, but they will. Or, if not heal, then recover some semblance of stability. Nicky is a hardened warrior—he was forged in blood, and this is only a drop in the river of their lives. Nicky will survive this, because he always has.

Still, Joe doesn’t think he’s going to think about making music again for a long, long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers :"D


End file.
